


And the seventh one has drownèd thee

by gayalondiel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/pseuds/gayalondiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Everyone warned John about getting too close to Sherlock. Maybe they were right to do so.<br/>Genre: Slightly AU. Angst. Folk/myth crossover. Dark. Decidedly not cheerful.<br/>Warnings: Dark!Sherlock; Character death: explicit but not gory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the seventh one has drownèd thee

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
> 
> A/N: This fic was inspired by lavvyan’s fic "A Brief History of Johns" but is very, very different. Credit for the spark and subsequent nudging is laid there. This story is based loosely on the European myth “Bluebeard” and the Child Ballad “Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight”. AU for small details of residence at Baker Street and disregarding TGG.
> 
> Absolute love and gratitude to my beta caffienekitty who convinced me that the story was worth sharing and to morelindo who helped me with John and put up with me constantly putting down my writing. Love you both.

Everyone had warned him. Lestrade had met him with a surprised twitch of the eyebrow at Sherlock’s having a friend. Anderson presented hostility intended to drive him away. Sally had told him in no uncertain terms that the man he was moving in with was nothing less than a psychopath and would one day start leaving a trail of bodies. Mycroft had done his level best to frighten him off, and when that failed had tried very hard to keep even closer tabs on Sherlock than he already did.

They had all been wrong, but not in the way John had thought.

* * *

“Is that another flat down there?”

John had asked the question of Sherlock, since he was there and Mrs Hudson wasn’t, not long after moving in to Baker Street. If he hadn’t known better he would have thought that Sherlock flinched for a second, but then the moment was gone and he was turning to John with a mild expression.

“Just storage, I think,” he said. “Mrs Hudson uses it. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

When they finally, inevitably tipped over the edge of friendship and into something more, John reflected that it was ironic that he had made the moves, given how vigorously he had denied that they were anything more than friends. He had done so repeatedly, and to everyone who asked and some who didn’t. So he was slightly surprised when it was he who tackled Sherlock, high on adrenaline and smelling of cordite and rain and London, drove him against a wall and kissed the living daylights out of him.

In all honesty he hadn’t expected Sherlock to respond. The man was beautiful and knew it, flouncing and swirling his way through the world, fluttering his eyelashes and smiling sweetly when it would get him his way, even with John. But he had stated outright that he didn’t want anything, wasn’t looking or asking or even hoping, so it was a surprise when strong arms wound around John and pulled him close as they kissed deeply. Shortly afterwards they were scrambling up the stairs, pulling off clothes as they went; quite a long time later they were curled around one another in Sherlock’s bed, glowing, breathing hard, slowly shifting from desperate clinging to lolling, sated, in one another’s arms.

“This was a mistake,” Sherlock said eventually, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.

“Really?” asked John, still slightly too dazed to be hurt or angry. “If that’s what you think...”

“It’s... it’s not,” whispered Sherlock. “But it’s for the best. I... you don’t know...”

“Married to your work,” repeated John from their earlier conversation, parrot-fashion. A little chill was beginning to settle in the pit of his stomach. Best to break it now. “Well, fine. If that’s what you want, that’s fine. Um. Is this going to make things weird?”

“I don’t see why,” said Sherlock determinedly, and John wondered for a moment if he was simply going to ‘delete’ the encounter from his mind. “Unless it’ll be weird for you?”

John thought back to university halls, where he had slept with a girl in freshers’ week and then had to walk past her pretty much every day for the rest of the year, feeling a guilty twinge at not having followed through with anything approximating to a relationship. But that was then, and this was Sherlock, who was anything but normal. He was worth a bit of weirdness.

“It’s all fine,” he said.

* * *

That night John woke to darkness, dazed, from a dream he could not remember.

* * *

The next afternoon John came home to see Sherlock slipping out of the door marked 221C. He was turning the key in the lock when he heard the front door close behind John and glanced up. As quick as lightening an expression of guilt flashed in his eyes, followed by something more intense that was just as ruthlessly quashed. John stared at him in the half-shadows for a second. Thoughts crossed his mind: _I was wrong, it’s too weird, I want you, I need you, I miss you, can we try again_ ; and then he remembered his promise that everything would be fine.

“I thought you said there wasn’t anything down there?” he said instead.

“There isn’t,” replied Sherlock, sharply. “I just had to check... there’s nothing.”

“Okay,” John replied, unconvinced but not particularly fussed. The thought crossed his mind that maybe Sherlock was using it for cadaver storage and that at least in that case they would no longer be in the fridge, and he laughed at himself and headed upstairs.

On the landing Sherlock reached out and caught his wrist to stop him.

“John,” he whispered, his breath hot on the back of his neck. “There’s nothing in there. Leave it.”

“Okay,” replied John easily, ignoring the twinge of curiosity he couldn’t help but feel.

* * *

It was some weeks later that John finally convinced the brunette from the little coffee place down the road to go out for a drink with him. It had taken a little perseverance and enough lattes to put him just the wrong side of jittery, but it was definitely worth it for the normal evening in pleasant company that had been lacking since before Afghanistan. His dates with Sarah emphatically didn’t count in that category, each having been interrupted by Sherlock with some life-threatening scenario or other. He walked the brunette home and she let him kiss her at the door but did not invite him in, and he promised to call her tomorrow, which he had every intention of doing.

His return to 221B was greeted by silence from the figure on the sofa as he entered and headed to the kitchen for a drink of water. John was still in his own world, smiling to himself as he held the glass under the tap. When he turned there was a tall, thunderous looming presence barely two inches away from him. The drink slipped from his hand and splinters of glass and water crashed and chased each other across the floor. Sherlock did not move and John found he could not breathe. The moment stretched for minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, and all he knew was the thunder of blood in his ears and the piercing gaze holding him captive. Then Sherlock was gripping the back of his neck, hard enough to bruise, tugging him forward and pressing a burning kiss to his lips.

Another few years seemed to pass.

John managed to pull back, not far, space enough to whisper but close enough that his breath gusted across Sherlock’s lips as he did so.

“I thought we weren’t going to...”

“Shut up.”

“Right.”

He did end up calling the girl from the coffee shop the next day, but with an apology and a flimsy excuse, and a determined and distracting detective pressing silent kisses to his neck.

* * *

Not twenty-four hours after Sherlock decided that he couldn’t handle seeing John with anyone except himself, John left work to find a familiar black car waiting for him. He decided to ignore it but it rolled after him down the road in the least subtle way possible. John glanced about himself for a footpath that cut through the houses and found one in the form of a dingy alley, only to be met at the other end by an unmistakable silhouette leaning on an umbrella. He sighed.

“Dr Watson.”

“Yes?”

“Might I enquire as to your intentions towards my brother?” Mycroft’s tone did not have it’s usual sheen of friendliness. It was hard as iron and cold as ice.

“My intentions?” repeated John in disbelief. “My... no, you may not.” He made to walk past but the umbrella flicked out to meet the wall, barring his way. Mycroft turned his head so that his sharp gaze bore directly into John’s eyes.

“I understand your relationship has become... closer,” he said deliberately. “I really must counsel against it, for both your sakes.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock is of a delicate constitution,” Mycroft said. “His affections are deeply felt, but somewhat unusual... I would not wish to see either of you hurt.”

“Sherlock is a grown man, and our choices are none of your business.”

“On the contrary, his business is my business, especially when he puts himself in danger.”

“You think he’s in danger with me?”

“Not precisely...”

“He trusts me.”

“I am certain.”

“I trust him.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I’ll take the chance, thanks,” snapped John, suddenly unable to bear the arrogant presumption he perceived in the elder Holmes’ presumption that he could mould the world as he saw fit. He shoved passed the makeshift blockade and stalked off.

“Mind me, Dr Watson...” followed him down the road.

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” he yelled pointedly back.

* * *

“I was just talking to Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said by way of greeting as he entered the flat in a whirl of energy. John glanced up from the laptop where he was diligently researching more exotic varieties of garden twine at his partner’s request. Sherlock was bright with the enthusiasm of an interesting case, but a shadow rested lightly on his brow.

“Oh?” said John, politely enquiring.

“She said you were asking about 221C,” Sherlock elaborated, fixing him with a look. The back of John’s neck flushed warm as he felt caught out.

“Oh! Yes. I was just wondering how much space there was down there, whether we might be able to fix it up so that she could let it. You know, it would help her with the bills and stuff.”

“And she told you...”

“Actually, she told me that you were using it already. That you had been for a while, even while the previous tenants were still up here. She said you were the only person ever interested in renting it.”

“Correct.”

“It doesn’t matter...” John began, feeling slightly guilty. Sherlock stepped over and dropped to his knees in front of him, setting aside the laptop and taking his hands.

“John, this is important,” he said earnestly. “You can have anything. Anything of mine, anything of Mycroft’s, anything at all that I could possibly ever obtain for you I will get, you only have to ask. I will give you _anything_. But please, _please_ leave 221C alone.”

John stared. Sherlock’s face was pale, his eyes sparkled with a sheen of tears, and he pressed his lips together awaiting John’s answer. His hands trembled. Bewildered, John reached out and pulled him into an embrace, feeling fine tremors running through his whole body.

“Of course,” he whispered. “Of course. Whatever you say.” He did not mention that the smoking ember of curiosity had been fanned into a bright flame, and resolved to quash it on his own.

* * *

The twine proved to be the key and Sherlock ran out the door in a burst of energy to be on site when the arrest was made. John, tired from a day of work and an evening of garden centre research, elected to stay home and curled up on the sofa, not bothering to pretend that he wasn’t breathing in Sherlock’s scent. Gently he drifted into a hazy sleep.

He saw the door before him, vague and ill-defined but definitely the same door, and he remembered somehow that he had dreamt the same dream dozens of times, but never grasped it very long after he awoke. The door shifted before him and the bright numbers melted away as it dissolved into nothing. Beyond it shadows moved and voices laughed, high and bright, low and mellow, male and female. He tried not to move but his feet carried him forward, pulling him down the steps and around the corner to where the figures waited. They were insubstantial and formless, but they greeted him with bright smiles and open arms as one of their own.

John woke, or thought he had, although the insubstantial fog remained. Was he still dreaming? Or had the grey mist of an autumn morning seeped in around the door, crept up the stairs and surrounded him as he slept? He smelt something on the air, copper and antiseptic. In a haze he rose, and the fog seemed to part in a path towards Sherlock’s room. He knew where it was leading. He had promised, given his word, but curiosity played on his nerves like taut violin strings until it was almost physically painful. Unwilling to go but unable to stop, he walked through the doorway and went straight to the top drawer of Sherlock’s bedside table, reaching behind papers and cables and tissues cluttering the drawer. Unerringly his hand sought and found a small, cold, solid item. A key.

He found himself downstairs, although he could not tell how he had got there. He stood before the door and the numbers were solid, glinting, mocking him with their refusal to dissolve. He thought he heard a faint siren song in the distance, and his heart hammered within his chest. Already beyond the point of stopping himself, his mind whirling in a heady mix of guilt and the desire to know, he slid the key into the lock and opened the door with a loud crack.

The smell was stronger down here. The fog seeped around him, rolling, growing, slipping down the stairs, and John followed it. A voice was singing in his ears, compelling him forward, and he was helpless to resist. The stairs were dark yet he moved without hesitation, and in the gloom he could see figures. He thought they were moving in the shadows, dancing amid the fog. There were six of them. His breath came heavily, his pulse thrummed, the voice sang louder, the fog rolled, and he needed to see, to know what they were. Without thinking he reached out to his left, found a light switch and flicked it on. A bright light blinded him for a second, and then he felt his heart stop.

The fog was gone. Silence reigned. His eyes burnt, his breath caught in his throat, and the sudden strength of the stench was overpowering. And six bodies, men and women, lay in various states of decay around the walls of the room. The brass key slipped from his fingers, landing with an echoing thud on what could only be a dried trail of blood.

Suddenly his heart was back, slamming against his ribs rapidly as though it was trying to break free of his chest. He heard rather than felt himself breathing, hard and fast and then almost hyperventilating. He tore his eyes away from the dead bodies that looked at him with empty faces, scrabbling for the key. Tripping and stumbling he made it up the stairs. He slammed the door and didn’t stop running until he was back in 221B with the door shut behind him. There he slid down the door, curling up into a tight ball on the floor and clutching his knees to his chest as he rode out wave after wave of sheer panic. He had seen death before, had courted it and fought it, had duelled, won, lost, had saved lives and taken them almost with ease. But this was not him. This was Sherlock, could only be Sherlock, and it chilled him to the very core, stealing his resolve and leaving him a mass of white noise and confusion.

He didn’t know when he moved, step by laboured step back to Sherlock’s room, placing the key carefully back in the drawer, straightening the stacks of books where he stumbled against them. Over to his chair, he couldn’t sit on the sofa that reeked of Sherlock. He knew he should act but could not remember what he should do. He didn’t know how long he sat, waiting for his limbs to stop trembling, for his heart to settle back to a rhythm near to normal. His hands and feet felt like ice.

John noticed there was a trace of blood on his fingertip. It stood out bold and dark against the pallor of his skin. He didn’t know how it had got there. He couldn’t move to get rid of it.

* * *

Eventually the front door banged and footsteps sounded on the stairs, and John was still in the living room. The sensible thing would have been to run. He could be long gone by now, away, free, safe. He could have gone to Scotland Yard, to Lestrade, to a refuge. But he was there, he couldn’t move, and then Sherlock was there and looking and knowing, and the bright smile on his face faded to a placid, resigned, serene expression. He walked to his bedroom, and John didn’t run. He returned, held out his hand, and John didn’t run. He took the proffered hand and Sherlock raised it to his lips, kissed his knuckles, drew him gently to his feet and led him back down the stairs.

The basement flat was as John had left it, dark and musty and full of old blood and blank faces that stared balefully. A knife shone blue, clean and sharp and ready on the mantelpiece. A feeling of intense calm washed over him, peace that spread with every breath he took. He smiled at Sherlock and got a beatific expression in return. Sherlock drew him to the middle of the room and turned him around.

“Tracey,” he listed. “Victor. Sophia. Irene. David. Michael.”

“And me?”

Sherlock smiled down at him. “Yes,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s alright,” replied John, his voice and his hand perfectly steady. “Will it be quick?”

Sherlock nodded. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

John glanced to the side, to the boarded window at the top of the wall. Sherlock followed his gaze, looked back to him. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m going to miss the stars,” said John. “In Afghanistan there were so many stars, it was like you could see the whole universe just standing out in the base. It was so beautiful.”

“They are beautiful,” agreed Sherlock.

“Can I go out and see them? One more time?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head sadly. “But do you want to look out of the window? I can take the board down?”

John smiled. “Would you? That would be lovely.”

Sherlock looked down at him, his eyes speaking volumes. Comfort. Resignation. Understanding. Peace. Love. Gratitude. He kissed his hand again, turned away, took a step and reached up to pry away the board. John watched for a second, breathing in the unnatural calm and resolution, and then he stepped up behind him and with a strength he had forgotten he could wield placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and swiftly snapped his neck.

* * *

John stood, breathing hard, surveying the scene around him as the world snapped back into a focus he hadn’t realised it had lost. Six dead bodies he had not known lay watching him, and one he had was crumpled facing away, a blue coat and a mop of coal black hair. He felt himself begin to shake and swallowed. He thought of Mrs Hudson noticing that Sherlock was missing, checking, finding the bodies, fainting and crying and possibly never recovering from the shock. He thought of Lestrade, who thought of Sherlock as a colleague and friend, not allowed to take the case because of the personal connection, unwilling to leave it alone because of his heart and thirst for justice. He thought of Anderson, heading up the forensic investigation, of the comments he would share with Donovan, at once justified and horrified that they had been right.

He thought of Mycroft, possibly knowing what Sherlock had been and protecting him because of their shared blood bond. How he had tried to frighten John off. How he was always watching. He would know. He probably knew already.

He thought of how they had all, in their way, tried to warn him.

His legs carried him from the basement flat. He did not tremble any more. He locked the door, ran up the stairs, up to his bedroom. Dropped his phone and his wallet on the bed. Emptied his pockets of scribbled notes, small change, everything that he had accumulated over the last few days. Left his jacket where it hung. Drew his gun from its hiding place in his desk. Opened it. Loaded it. Slipped it into the back of his waistband, pulling his jumper down to conceal it. Took one breath, two.

John ran.

**Author's Note:**

> Bluebeard: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluebeard  
> Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight/The Outlandish Knight variants (Child ballads): http://www.contemplator.com/child/variant4.html  
> The Outlandish Knight performed by Bellowhead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YH-tihCjYxA


End file.
